“Oh. Thanks.”
Trent glared at Chip, but Chip just shrugged him off and grinned at me.
I didn’t know what to make of it.
Maybe Cyprian Cusumano wasn’t as soulless as I thought.
Maybe.
Coach Fortes caught me on the way back to the locker room.
“You were pretty good out there, Kellner.”
“Thanks,” I said, but then I stepped in something.
It was squishy, and as soon as I smelled it I knew.
“Oh. Shit.”
“Language!” Coach said, but then he turned back and saw me scraping my shoe on the grass.
People in the neighborhood let their dogs run through the South Field sometimes.
“Oh. You meant that literally.”
“Sorry, Coach.”
He snorted and shook his head. “Come on. We’ve got towels inside. I’ll write you a tardy slip.”
“Thanks.”
I guess Coach Fortes was okay as far as coaches went at Chapel Hill High School, even if he was part of the Sportsball-Industrial Complex that allowed Fatty Bolger and his Soulless Minions of Orthodoxy to thrive.
(Go Chargers.)
Coach said, “Soccer is pretty big in Iran, huh?”
“Yeah. They call it football, though.”
“You play a lot while you were there?”
“I guess.”
“How come you never tried out for our team? I didn’t even know you played.”
I thought about Coach Henderson.
I thought about lack of discipline.
“I guess I didn’t think I was that good.”
“Well, you’ve got some skill. Why don’t you try out in the fall?”
My ears burned. I almost told Coach no.
Almost.
But that’s what Darius would have done.
